The Ghosts of Saturday Night
by Sophia Jirafe
Summary: Spike. Saturday night. Three women.


The Ghosts of Saturday Night  
  
Author: Sophia Jirafe  
e-mail: skepticgirl@yahoo.com  
Rating: PG for language  
Spoilers: Through "Older and Far Away"  
Archive: Links only. Do not archive without permission.  
Disclaimer: Copyrighted material used, not for profit.   
Summary: Spike. Saturday night. Three women.   
  
......  
  
"And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamond  
Across a cash crop car lot filled with twilight Coupe Devilles,  
Leaving the town in the keeping  
Of the one who is sweeping  
Up the ghosts of Saturday night..."   
-- Tom Waits  
  
......  
  
Best way to feel like a total, complete idiot, he thinks, is   
to stand on the sidewalk with the echo of a door slamming   
behind you. Bonus points if it opens a minute later and someone   
throws your coat at you.  
  
Dusk has fallen at last, and he's free to wander the streets. Good,   
he thinks furiously, shrugging his duster on. Sick of being cooped   
up in that perfumed, girly house anyhow. Might as well get   
himself a little real demon action.   
  
And sweet fuck, what is *with* the bitch? Like it's his fault he   
fell asleep on the couch last night after entertaining her sister  
all evening? All *he* wanted was to patrol, maybe stake a baddie   
or two, but the bird spent the night doing girl things in the   
bathroom with Willow, and came out with her hair significantly   
lighter than usual. Like he didn't know enough about hair dye to   
help out?  
  
Stupid thing's probably just terrified that innocent little Dawn   
heard her in the middle of the night, making the old couch creak   
while she rode him to her pleasure. She'd kill him if she knew,   
but privately he thinks the whole charade is damn funny.   
Dysfunction, pet. Get used to it.  
  
Still, none of that necessitated leaving him stuck in the living   
room all day without so much as a cuppa, since she conveniently   
forgot to close the kitchen curtains when she went shopping this   
morning. And he doesn't really think he deserved being told to   
get the hell out, just because he tried to cop a feel while   
she was getting tarted up for slaying. Little California girl   
doesn't have a clue about proper winter attire -- is it his fault   
for noticing?  
  
Shuffling along, he kicks a large rock, which hits a crack and   
goes flying, landing with a dent on top of a nearby Mercedes.   
Good to see his talent for destruction is still intact. If only   
the car had been the top of her blonde, empty head.  
  
He doesn't pay attention to where he walks, knowing where he's   
going anyhow. Downtown, where all the lights are bright. Downtown,   
everything's waiting for him. Or however the bleeding song goes.   
That particular brand of pop isn't quite his oeuvre.  
  
Soon he's in the thick of it all, the eager, bustling humans   
desperate for something to spice up the numbness of their mundane   
lives. Nubile youngsters scamper off to the Bronze in their   
tightest toffs while well-groomed twentysomethings saunter into   
nice bars, thoughts of meaningful conversation and mindblowing sex   
gleaming in their eyes.   
  
No nice bars for this bad boy, though, and he wanders until he   
spots one seedy enough to suit his tastes. He's more in the mood   
for maudlin brooding than demonic rough and tumble, and he settles   
on Pike's Pub, a neighborhood establishment near the warehouse   
district. Feels like a bit of home -- he remembers loitering here   
with Dru back in the good old days, just waiting for the right   
catch. They never took them too drunk -- alcohol thinned the blood   
out -- or too dirty, but sometimes Dru set her dark heart on a   
failing businessman, the kind who'd drink himself under the bar   
to avoid facing his nice family with the bad news about Daddy's   
company.   
  
He misses that careful selection, passing up the easy kills and   
latching onto the ones who'd really be missed. There used to   
be a real art in it. The young ones now can't even be bothered   
with a spot of torture -- it's all bite and turn, bite and turn.   
Sometimes he wonders if there's anyone left on this sorry Hellmouth   
who could orchestrate an apocalyptic plot, besides himself.   
Probably not.  
  
The warm glow of the bar beckons him, and he quits reminiscing   
and crosses the street towards the thrum of human life. He can't   
have any, of course, but it's always comforting to be in the   
middle of all that heat and noise. Besides, on occasion there's   
some young thing who's smashed enough to donate a little blood   
to the needy vampire fund. Nothing quite so inviting as a pretty   
girl holding a knife to her throat.   
  
He swaggers over the threshold like a gunslinger from an old   
western, turning several heads in the process. There's a reason   
he wears this duster, worn as it is. He nods at a few of the   
ladies, but none of them catch his fancy quite yet. He'll settle   
in, then take his pick of the place.  
  
Right. That's it, just a bloke on the town, looking for a little   
action. No strings, no worries. No blonde bit out enjoying   
herself alone, because he's "clingy" and "needy" and "totally   
delusional" and, oh, bugger it.   
  
This is the way he wants it, the crack of pool balls, the buzz   
of lights, the tinny roar of football on the telly and warm   
blues on the stereo system. Saturday night, good and proper.   
Way in the back he catches a glimpse of long, shiny hair hanging   
over a big tequila sunrise, and heads on over. Birds who drink   
alone are usually his best bet. Never mind that it's been so   
long since he's done this that the bookie has permanently closed   
his account.  
  
"Mind a little company?" he asks the hair as he slides onto the   
stool next to her. She doesn't move. The bartender shimmies up   
and he shakes his head, patting the flask in his pocket. The   
guy frowns at him and, with a sigh, he orders a shot of Jack.   
Bleed you dry, these places.   
  
He looks back at the girl and finds, to his utter amazement,   
that the hair in question belongs to Tara, who is clearly not   
on her first drink of the night. Her eyes, always heavy-lidded,   
are nearly closed, her cheeks flush unhealthily, and her mouth   
hangs partway open. She shakes her head to flip her hair back,   
then lets it slide back down again.  
  
"Uh," he says, then does the universal sign of male recognition,   
the head jerk. She's looking down though, so he translates.   
  
"Uh, hi."  
  
"Hi," she answers dully, looking into the depths of her glass, which   
is rather less than half full.  
  
"So," he says after a moment, looking around for the bartender. He   
clears his throat, wondering if she's still as pissy as she was   
the other night. "Having a good time?"  
  
"Nope," she tells him. "You?"  
  
"No," he admits.   
  
"How's that cramp?"  
  
"Fine," he says shortly, looking away. Play it cool. "What are you   
doing, drinking alone?"  
  
"Needed a little peace and quiet," she tells him, her slurred voice   
sounding just a little off. "I've got four roommates now, and   
three of them are musicians. Plus it seems like everyone in the   
world picked this week to tell me their secret troubles. Felt   
like it was time I went and drowned a few of my own. And now   
*you're* here," she adds, narrowing her eyes.  
  
Obviously, still pissy. Something's changed with her, something   
he can't quite put his finger on. The stumbling, shrinking girl   
who used to hide behind her girlfriend has gotten an edge.   
He's not sure he likes her this way. It used to be rather pleasant   
to be around someone not hard-bitten with cynicism and despair.   
  
"Fancy that," he says, for lack of anything better. The bartender   
plonks his shot down and he gulps it with relish.  
  
"Why are *you* here?" she asks. "Buffy kick you out of bed?"  
  
Whiskey goes where it shouldn't and he chokes from the burn,   
rather than the lack of oxygen. Dropping the glass, he wipes   
his mouth and tries to regain his composure.  
  
"You know, that night, really, it was -- "   
  
"Don't bother lying. Drunk, okay? Not stupid. Anyhow, she   
told me."  
  
He gapes openly now.   
  
"Told you? When? What?"  
  
She smiles a slow, tight grin into her glass.   
  
"Don't worry, Spike. I don't think she meant to say anything.   
She was too busy crying about being a horrible, evil person   
for doing it."  
  
That hurts. It always does.   
  
"All right then," he says diffidently, beckoning to the bartender.   
"So we're shagging. So what?"  
  
"So I just wish I didn't have to know about it," she sighs.   
"First my roommate says she thinks she might be a little gay,   
and is maybe kinda sorta attracted to me. Next I find out her   
boyfriend's going to dump her if she won't do a threesome with   
him. Now this."  
  
He nods with as much sympathy as he can, throws back his second   
shot as it arrives, and tosses the glass on the counter.  
  
"You know," he confides, "it wasn't my fault she kicked me out   
tonight. Those damn friends of hers. Always meddling -- think   
they bloody well know what's best for her. Like any of them   
really know her."  
  
Tara sighs, and looks for something in her glass.  
  
"I can believe that," she mutters. "They're all kind of that way."  
  
He feels a grateful glow. They're on the same team, them against   
everyone else. Tara always understands.  
  
"They don't like either of us much, do they?" he says, starting   
to relax. "We should form our own spinoff faction, you know,   
just you and me and Anya. The unloved lovers. The Scoobies   
against the Jabberjaw...uh, whatever those guys were called."  
  
She rises from her drink, amber light in her sullen eyes, and   
smacks him one across the mouth. Her words might be off, but   
her aim doesn't seem to be.  
  
"What the fuck was that for?" he demands, muffling his words   
behind a protective hand.  
  
"Don't you *dare* compare the two of us, Spike," she breathes,   
and the light is replaced by a shimmer of tears. "They don't   
like you because you don't *want* them to. They don't like me   
because...they just don't."  
  
Rubbing his mouth, he glares at her.  
  
"The hell I don't want them to! What more do you think I should   
be doing? I fight evil, I drink ruddy cow blood -- I kill my   
own kind! How else am I supposed to prove I'm their loyal little   
puppy dog?"  
  
"It's not what you *do*, Spike," she says crossly, seeming to   
wake up a little as she rubs at her eyes. "It's what you *are*.   
Look at how you act around everyone. Just because you're 125   
years older than us, we're all supposed to bow at your feet?   
Spike, you've lived for over a century and you haven't learned   
anything. Can't you tell you're someplace where being a big,   
badassed vampire doesn't matter?"  
  
She considers her words for a moment, and then an cruel smirk   
crosses her sweet, sloshed face in a most unattractive way.  
  
"Well, maybe it matters with certain people," she says, hunkering   
back down over her tequila. "And maybe you've learned enough to   
know that's all you've got going with her. But if you have to   
play the evil vampire to keep Buffy hanging around you, then   
you'd better not complain her friends don't like you because   
you're a big undead pain in the ass."  
  
He gapes at this astonishing rush of sharp words from the girl   
he's considered until now to be a bit soft in the head, sweet   
but a little woozy from too many herblore sessions. Clearly, the   
tequila knows something he doesn't.   
  
He looks her over again, noticing that her oversized green   
sweater is sliding off one shoulder, baring an enticing amount   
of soft neck. She's pretty loaded -- a tumble might not be out   
of the question, and if he's lucky he might even convince her   
to help him out a little in the warm blood department.   
  
"Well, maybe you're right, pet," he drawls, turning off the   
wounded pride and clicking into hypnotic vampire mode. "But   
you know, this place looks a little crowded to me. Wanna -- "  
  
"No, Spike," she sighs. "I do not want to go somewhere and have   
sex with you. I don't have sex with men, and if I did, I wouldn't   
do it with you. I hate men who cry afterwards."  
  
His mouth falls open. Bloody, wanking, sneaky witches. Trust   
them a little and they steal the thoughts right out of a bloke's   
head. And was it his fault Buffy looked so trusting and vulnerable   
when she passed out on top of him after the house fell down?  
  
"Well, your loss, witch," he snarls, getting up from his stool   
and tossing a handful of fountain-filched change on the bar.   
"Besides, I don't think you'd like a man who bites afterwards."  
  
The comeback sounds lame even to him as he stalks out of the   
bar, jerking his coat on and knocking several glasses off the   
counter in the process. Fine. If he can't get sympathy, he'll   
have to take what he can get.  
  
......  
  
He's not going to the cemetery because she might be there.   
He's going to the cemetery because he lives there. If, while   
taking the very attractive roundabout scenic route to crypt   
sweet crypt he should happen to run into her, it is by merest   
chance, and he will only assist her with assorted slaying   
duties and continue on his innocent way.   
  
He doesn't run into her, and it takes a whole bottle of whiskey   
to get over the disappointment.   
  
If he didn't know firsthand that hell existed, Saturday night   
television would convince him of it, he thinks, flipping through   
the stations for the twentieth time. Anyone who'd program   
"Entertainment Tonight," "Married...With Children" and "Andromeda"   
on the same night has to be one sick bastard.   
  
Of course, it's even more pathetic that he's around to watch   
them, rather than out raising hell, but even vampires deserve   
a night in, don't they? He tosses bottle number two in the   
designated bottle corner, and winces as it shatters. With the   
amount of time he spends lying on the floor these days, he's   
bound to find some of that glass sooner or later.   
  
The floor...bloody fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He growls to himself   
in fury, trying not to remember. Stupid...*fuck*.   
  
Throwing the remote down, he jumps up and begins to pace, but   
finds himself further infuriated by the uselessness of it and   
stops, leaning his forehead wearily against the stone wall.   
This is not how it was supposed to be. All those months, trying   
to get her out of his head but still imagining her writhing   
under him, inflaming himself with his own empty touches...  
fucked-up daydreams, right, but was it so much to ask that   
when she finally gave in, she didn't make them both miserable   
with it?   
  
The hell of it is that just a few years ago he could've shagged   
a bird and even gotten off on it if she despised herself for   
liking the pain. He's had a thousand women and not a few men,   
and sex wrapped in twisted motives is nothing new to him. But   
it's never *mattered* before. He could shag and drain a roomful   
of women and still crawl home to his beloved's bed, where she   
would thread her fingers into his hair and sing demented little   
songs about whatever floated into her crazy head. Love meant Dru   
and sex meant games, and with Dru the two were often   
indistinguishable.   
  
Buffy doesn't want to be fucked, and she doesn't want to be   
fucked with, and hell, she doesn't even want to love him. She   
thinks she wants some pure, boring ponce like that two-faced   
soldier boy, or at least someone who isn't doing the vampy dance   
behind her back, and no amount of screaming orgasms is ever   
going to convince her otherwise. And he could fucking deal with   
that if he could only stop loving her so much, he thinks, making   
a sudden fist and jamming it into the wall. It would be a great   
little game if he just wasn't betting with his heart.  
  
As he stares at the blood dripping from his knuckles, he hears   
the door swing open behind him. Lovely. If he's such a mess that   
he can't even sense when a human comes blundering along, he's   
in some serious trouble.  
  
"Thought I was too annoying to even talk to," he says, still   
looking at his hand.   
  
"Wouldn't surprise me," says a sharp voice from the door, and   
he turns around to face...  
  
Well, face whatever the hell she's calling herself these days.   
"Ugly" would be his name, but, he suspects, not hers. Demons   
are funny that way.  
  
"Besides," she continues, "I didn't really come here to talk."  
  
"Mmf?" he mumbles, sucking at his bloody knuckle. No sense letting   
it go to waste.  
  
"Aren't you interested in knowing why I'm here?" she asks,   
cocking her head at an angle.  
  
He shrugs, swallowing. "Can't see why it matters. Whatever you   
want to do to me, not bloody much I can do to stop it."  
  
"Oh, William," she says, a soft smile creeping across her veined   
face. "I just love that you're the only vampire of your age who's   
kept his charming native patois. Even Angelus and Darla learned   
to fit in. Though we mustn't forget little Dru, of course."   
  
He clenches his split hand again, feeling that old burn. "What   
do you know about Dru? Or any of them? How did -- "  
  
"Shh, William," she croons in the odd new tone she's acquired.   
"I said I didn't come here to talk." She takes a few measured   
steps across the room, fixing him with her eyes. Fuck, the   
same blue eyes. He quails as it all floods back, and then   
remembers he is not entirely defenseless against her in this   
new form. He can still finish what he started.  
  
"Then what do you want to do?" he asks, putting on the tough   
voice. "Stake me?   
Curse me? Both? I know vengeance is your game now, and I guess   
you've got the right to it, but don't your powers only work   
for others?"  
  
"Justice," she says, pouting. "Vengeance just sounds so   
medieval," she purrs, continuing to advance on him.   
  
"Well, glad to know you're embracing the compassionate side   
of a life of vengeance, pet," he says, getting his back up   
against the wall. "But I really think 'medieval' describes,   
er, whatever it is you want to do to me."  
  
She's inches away now, and her demon breath is hot on his   
face, but it's those human eyes that are killing him. He   
still remembers the night he made the disdain in them turn   
to fear, as she finally realized she was alone in her house   
with him and stared into the dark with terror.   
  
"Really?" she asks. "And what do you think I'm going to do? This?"  
  
He flinches, trying to stop himself, but all she does is relax   
the demon mask, and there she is again, round and sweet-faced as   
a century ago. By the time this registers, though, she's already   
pressing her cherub's mouth to his, and gripping his shoulders   
with strong fingers, and his hands are between their bodies,   
whether to push or to pull he doesn't know.  
  
It's push, he decides, as he finds the stake tucked into her   
bra and pulls it out.   
  
"I hate to tell you this, pet," he says, pulling back. "But   
stakes are definitely medieval."  
  
The soft, flushed flesh melts back into the demon, and he can   
feel the fury burn in her. She slaps his face and he grins,   
and she grabs for the stake but he's got six inches on her   
and holds it above her head.   
  
"Can't *justify* this, can you?" he jeers. "No jilted   
maiden out there clamoring for my stolen blood."  
  
"Justice?" she shrieks. "You want *justice*? Justice   
would be killing everyone you love, and leaving you   
locked in the cellar waiting for a monster to rip out   
your throat!" She lunges for the stake again, but he   
slips past her and throws it out the open door, which   
he then pulls shut. Leaning against it, he folds his   
arms over his chest and smirks at her.   
  
"Look, Cecily," he starts.  
  
"HALFREK!" she screeches, her face turning purple.   
"There is no Cecily. You *killed* Cecily!"  
  
"Doesn't seem like it, since you're still here," he   
points out, enjoying his position. Not every day he   
has the upper hand with one of the fair sex.  
  
She glares at him, her heavy breathing bringing tiny   
flickers of flame from her nostrils as her rootlike   
hands clench and unclench.  
  
"You killed her," she says in a low voice, something like the   
woman's he remembers from an age ago. "You took away everything   
and everyone that mattered, and didn't have the decency to   
kill her too."  
  
He quirks an eyebrow and smiles with one corner of his mouth.   
  
"What the hell do you think happened to a girl with no family   
in Victorian England?" she demands. "The estate was entailed   
to a third cousin in Shropshire. He gave me one tenth of my   
dowry and sold the house. I spent a year teaching in a draughty,   
miserable boarding school in Exmoor, and was a moment away from   
throwing myself into a ravine when Anyanka found me."  
  
Her face smoothes into the Cecily-mask again as she begins to   
weep, and he's intrigued by the fact that she needs to appear   
human in order to cry, wondering if it's a demon trait or a   
Halfrek trait. She collapses in his chair, sobbing in earnest.   
  
"So...now I'm going to pay for my wicked wicked ways?" he   
asks lazily. "Not *quite* sure it works like that -- isn't   
there a statute of limitations on vengeance? And doesn't   
becoming a demon rather cancel it out?"  
  
She hitches in a breath, wiping the tears from her cheek.   
"There's no *rules* about this," she snaps. "It's just common   
decency. You ruined my life and it's time you paid for it."  
  
"I didn't kill you," he answers. "I can't see that there's   
anything fair about taking my life when I spared yours."  
  
"You didn't spare my father's!" she cries. "Or my mother's,   
or my brothers' and sisters', or my best friend's, or   
old Judge Merryfield's, or any of the others you killed!   
I deserve *something* for their deaths!"  
  
He shakes his head. "*Cecily* deserved repayment," he tells   
her. "You've made it damned clear that you're no longer   
her. You gave up your claim to my death when you accepted   
Anya's offer. Made your immortal bed and you can just sleep   
in it, pet."  
  
She turns her dazed human face to his, and what he sees there   
makes him chuckle out loud.  
  
"Oh, don't tell me you've been searching for me all these   
years, girl," he laughs. "Anyone could have told you that   
being demonized meant giving up your right to vengeance.   
Even dear old fluff-headed Anya."  
  
He waits for the next rush of tears, but she only looks down   
and sighs, her face creasing up again, making him wish she'd   
just stick with the one look.   
  
"Damn," she growls. "Always been a little absent-minded.   
Cursing the wrong man on occasion, you know. It's expected   
from time to time, but I've almost become a joke with my   
friends. 'You know Halfrek, ask her to curse your brother   
in law and she'll end up cursing your brother.'"   
  
She seems to appeal to him for something, and he raises   
his eyebrows again, amused with his mercurial houseguest.   
This definitely beats "Married...With Children."  
  
"Well, at least that's one thing off my mind," she says   
briskly, sitting up and crossing her legs. "A little hard   
to concentrate on securing justice for the wronged when I   
was always looking out for you with one eye. I never expected   
to find you in the Slayer's house, though, I must admit."  
  
"Yeah, well, long story," he says, leaning away from the door.   
"And not one I'm really interested in sharing. Been fun rehashing   
the past with you, have a nice life, good night," he adds,   
starting to open the door.  
  
"Oh, but we haven't rehashed anything!" she says, not moving.   
"I know about how you met Angelus and started terrorizing Europe,   
but I really don't understand how you went from that to being   
the Slayer's little boytoy."  
  
He stares at her, feeling a sick sense of deja vu. Does everyone   
in this bleeding town know by now?  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake, don't tell me she told you too," he moans,   
putting a hand over his eyes.   
  
"Honey, no one had to *tell* me," she says in an injured tone.   
"I'd been looking after poor neglected little Dawn, remember? Not  
my fault I happened to see a few things I, uh, wasn't interested   
in seeing." She wrinkles up her face even more, which he'd scarcely   
thought possible.  
  
"All right, great, we're shagging, shock and horror," he says,   
growing tired of the conversation now that he's no longer in   
charge. He crosses the room and pulls her up by one wrist,   
steering her towards the door. "Really, it's been great. Let's   
do it again next century. Minus the stake."  
  
He reaches for the door to open it, but she twists away and   
grabs the handle.  
  
"All right, all right, I'll go," she sighs. "Just tell me one thing."  
  
"Depends on what it is," he says, exasperated. "Wait -- I don't   
give a toss -- ask me so I can answer and you'll bugger off."   
  
"Why did you leave me?" she asks, sincerity shining in her eerie eyes.   
  
He looks down at her, remembering without wanting to the way he   
once ached for her. The poetry, the daydreams, the furtive   
glances. He'd wanted to erase her, and then he'd wanted to keep   
her forever. Another world, now, another girl, but the tricks   
are still the same.  
  
"I didn't want to," he says simply. "I was going to turn you.   
I loved Dru but she didn't even remember I was around half   
the time. Angelus never gave me anything but the back of his   
hand, and Darla couldn't be bothered with me. I wanted   
someone to love me. But I'd killed a few too many in town,   
so they came to the house and dragged me away before I   
could get to you."  
  
"That's it?" she asks, surprised. "I lived because you pissed   
off Mommy and Daddy vampire?"  
  
"Yeah, if you want to call it living," he answers.  
  
"Hm," she says. She opens the door, and he drops her wrist.  
  
"You know," she says, turning back as she crosses the threshhold.   
"Anya wasn't always such a fluff-head. Ask her about Napoleon   
sometime."  
  
He frowns, nonplussed, but she just winks as she waves a hand   
and vanishes in blue smoke.  
  
......  
  
He still dreams, sometimes. He dreams like a cat. Blood and   
motion and the victory of the kill and the terror of the prey   
and heart pounding. He can taste the fear and the tang and the   
heat of a girl's spilled blood, warm on his cold lips and down   
his throat as she writhes in his hands.  
  
He dreams when he's awake too. He dreams of dancing with Dru   
under the lamps, racing through the dark night with Angelus at   
his side, holding French salons in thrall with his voice and   
candlelight flickering over his marble face. He dreams of   
carnality, rolling on linen sheets with soft young women,   
staining the bed with their blood as they pressed their warm   
lips on him. He dreams of things that weren't, seeing Darla   
look at him with admiration, Angelus with affection, Dru without   
the host of spirits she kept around her.   
  
Tonight the dark is a canvas for old, old dreams, things gone   
unremembered for a hundred years and more. He dreams of the   
first nights of his childhood, stalking old friends in the   
street, killing them with a swift stab and pausing only for   
a cursory lick before sprinting onto the next. He dreams of   
the fear he delighted in provoking, the pain in his mother's   
eyes, the disbelief in his tutor's, the terror in his nephew's.   
He dreams of a young girl, never beautiful except in his mind,   
and of locking her in her own cellar. He dreams of rapture,   
pacing in front of the door, stretching out the penultimate   
moment as long as he can stand to wait. And of hands dragging   
him away from the house, forcing him into a shrouded carriage,   
robbing him of his joy.  
  
It's all a damned dream to him now. No mind can hold the years   
in one place, living the same life forever. He dreamed her, and   
this is real now. Only a hot, slim body pinning him down with   
the very power of her life, clawing and kissing, being only   
what she is and nothing more. He bites her shoulder and her   
palm stings his cheek. He loves her, and not the other; she   
is here, and not the other; and all the years between the   
two can only be contained silently in him. He is a force,   
an idea, an existence, and when he kisses her, it's with   
everything he is and has been.   
  
END  
  
......  
  
Many, many thanks go out to Maayan, Jill Kirby, Noelle Leithe,   
and LeiliaXF for the fab beta on short notice.   
  
This and more at http://thedoublehelix.org/sophia 


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